


Survival

by Lefaym



Category: X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men: Days of Future Past (2014) - Fandom, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Character Study, Coda, Grief, Hope, M/M, Mourning, Temporary Character Death - Charles Xavier, X-men: The Last Stand, content note: suicidal ideation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-06
Updated: 2014-09-06
Packaged: 2018-02-16 07:50:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2261745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lefaym/pseuds/Lefaym
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After everything, Erik still survives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Survival

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the Erik's [final scene](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1lbxI9FRseI) in X:Men: The Last Stand.
> 
> Please see tags for notes on content.
> 
> Many thanks to everyone who took a look at this for me: [duchamp](http://archiveofourown.org/users/duchamp/pseuds/duchamp) for her thorough commentary, [fera_festiva](http://archiveofourown.org/users/fera_festiva) for her cheerleading and encouragement, and [in_the_bottle](http://archiveofourown.org/users/fera_festiva) for her willingness to zap my over-use of commas and repetition.

Never before has Erik considered his instinct for survival a curse. He’d always rather considered it -- or the knowledge of it, at least -- to be the greatest gift that Charles had given him. That instinct, after all, had made him realise that defeating Shaw was only the beginning. It had driven him on to fight for his people, _their_ people, against those who would eradicate them. It had helped him do what needed to be done.

Now that instinct makes him a hypocrite.

If he were a man of any honor, he would end it with a razor blade, or by casting himself into the Bay. Or perhaps he would simply stay out in the cold until sleep took him. But in spite of everything, he can’t bring himself to do it. Even in this pathetic human state, something in him wants to survive. He knows that, should a street thug come at him with a knife he could no longer deflect, he would fight; he would pitch his old man’s body against whatever they threw at him, because the urge to go on, to continue, is still there.

How Mystique would laugh at him if she were here to see this. And then she would kill him, of course, no matter how hard he fought. It would only be fair.

Charles would not laugh. He would only smile in that infuriating way of his, and say something that was supposed to sound wise. _Have you finally learned, old friend, that you are more than your powers? More than the weapon you believed yourself to be?_ Erik imagines how angry he would be if Charles were to materialize here in this park, with those words on his lips and in his thoughts. Of course, it is nothing to how angry he is that Charles _isn’t_ here, sitting across the chessboard, preaching his foolish ideas of peace.

Erik holds his anger close, as he has always done. Without that anger, it would be too easy to let grief take the place of regret. Too easy to allow the weight of wasted years to crush him, to let the hollow in his chest become a chasm that swallows everything.

But then, perhaps it is already too late for that, no matter how he fans his rage.

Before, when he was still himself, he had been able to suppress the sliver of doubt that pierced his stomach whenever he remembered Charles’ body disintegrating before his eyes. Charles had always had his tricks, his illusions, and they had only grown more elaborate with the years. He might be gone, regrettably gone, but surely that would not be permanent. 

Now, though -- Erik extends his fingers, and sends his senses outward. He searches for that familiar thrum, the push and pull that holds everything together. He focuses everything on the chess pieces in front of him -- nothing. 

This void should not be possible. Even after he learned of the disease they called a cure, Erik had never truly believed that he, of all people, could be taken by it. But, here he is. And if it’s possible that he should be reduced to _this_ , then it’s possible that Charles Xavier died for good that day. It’s possible that Charles will never again sit across from him, waiting for him to make his move.

The hollow in his chest is burning now, and Erik realizes with horror that he is close to weeping. He clamps his jaw tightly against the sob rising in his throat, but no amount of blinking can stop the tears rising in his eyes and falling hot and shameful down his cheeks. A woman with a small child in her arms looks over at him with open pity on her face, and Erik wants to hide himself, but he’s too proud to turn his head. He glares at her, and she turns away instead, leaving him to mourn in peace.

When had he last -- he can’t remember. Decades, surely. An image brushes against the edge of his consciousness, of Charles holding him, wrapping him in a cocoon of gentle thoughts as he struggles not to sob against Charles’ chest. How Erik loathes everything about this moment: his own weakness, his need to cling to someone in the dark. _My friend, oh, my friend._ He buries his face in Charles’ shirt and shudders with everything that he’s trying to hold back.

Erik tries to place the scene, but he has no memory that matches it. A fantasy, then. A delusion. Perhaps, as a final indignity, he is going senile on top of everything else.

Mystique really would laugh at him. She had done a far better job of extracting Charles from her consciousness than he had; beautiful, magnificent creature.

His cheeks grow dry. The woman, who has moved to the other side of the park, laughs as her child squirms from her arms, and Erik sees for the first time that the little girl has a short green tail emerging from a specially cut hole in her jeans. A few of the chess players look at them askance, but the mother just smiles and runs after her child. 

No so-called cure for this one, it would seem. No hiding, no waiting to be found out. After everything, after every human attempt to categorize them, to cleanse them, to cure them, they still survive.

Erik remembers his lungs burning for air, the certainty that his own life didn’t matter so long as Shaw’s was ended. He remembers how willing, how eager, he was to die. And he remembers a voice in his head, screaming at him, begging him to live.

He imagines Charles sitting across from him, waiting for him.

Erik extends his fingers again, and reaches for the queen.


End file.
